


The Stem of an Apple

by Nyessa



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Picnic, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 02:57:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5031004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyessa/pseuds/Nyessa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a trip to Sundermount, Merrill teaches the crew about an old Dalish tradition to predict the name of one's future spouse. Takes place early in Act 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stem of an Apple

The mabari's bark heralds Hawke and Isabela as they return from the Dalish camp hauling a covered basket between them. Hawke has that ridiculous, smug grin of hers plastered across her face as they drop the basket in the middle of the spot they have chosen for a campsite, just far enough from the Dalish to not be considered encroaching on their territory.

“Mission accomplished,” she announces, tugging conspicuously on her gloves.

They are not the same gloves she was wearing when she waved goodbye before she and the pirate headed up the slope to trade. These are soft, brown leather—or at least Fenris imagines them to be soft—with a delicate pattern embroidered in red across the back of the hand and around the cuff.

“I could have gotten us a better deal if you had let me bargain.” Isabela almost, but not quite, pouts.

“You could have.” Hawke shrugs and glances at Merrill, who is too busy staring up the path to notice. “But I'm practically richer than the Viscount. I don't need to talk the Dalish out of everything they own.”

And winter will soon be on its way, though Hawke neglects to mention that as a consideration in her dealings. Fenris feels it in the bite of the wind blowing up from the coast, and he almost wishes he had agreed when Hawke had tried to convince him to wear a coat on this excursion. Fenris had shrugged off the warning of cold, and Hawke had frowned—she never fusses, but she makes her displeasure known when she thinks her friends take too little care of themselves. There is little doubt in his mind that she cares as much (almost as much, a small thought insists) for these people who are not her own, who stay only because she has not yet succeeded in talking the witch out of her folly.

“Besides.” She grins again and pats the wicker lid of the basket. “If you had been in charge, you wouldn't have thought of asking for these beauties.”

“Are you going to make us guess what's in there?” Anders asks.

Varric's face takes on a tinge of panic. “Hawke, please tell me you're not bringing back a basket full of puppies.”

Pretty whines at her heel.

“They're very quiet puppies,” Merrill comments, and Fenris rolls his eyes.

Hawke gives Pretty a reassuring pat on the head. “Now what would I do with a basket of puppies when I already have this fine fellow here?”

“Spoil them rotten, no doubt.”

Heads nod in agreement.

She purses her lips. “Anyway, they're not puppies.”

With a flick of her wrist, she flips the lid off the basket. Merrill makes a low “ooh” of appreciation, and Hawke beams like she has won a prize though it takes little enough to impress the witch. Fenris finds himself edging closer to see into the basket.

It is a bounty of small, round apples, almost as red as the ribbon that trails from Hawke's hair. She scoops one up and tosses it, quick, towards Merrill.

Merrill ends up chasing it halfway down Sundermount after it sails past her head.

“Careful, Daisy.” Varric chuckles. “You need to pay attention when Hawke—“

He barely catches the apple that Isabela lobs straight at his forehead.

Hawke laughs, a bright, crisp thing, and then the others are digging in to claim the brightest, crispest apples. They crowd around the basket, checking for worms and bruises. Fenris holds back, waits for them to clear away before he will take his share. But Hawke picks up another apple, holds it up like a prize, and meets his eye before aiming the apple at him.

Fenris snatches it out of the air and nods his thanks.

Soon they are all in the grass eating their apples, seated or half-sprawled in a loose circle. Varric and Sebastian have claimed the only shade beneath a tree, but the autumn sun is not so bright that it burns, and Fenris sits with his back to it, letting it warm him. He does not bite into his apple yet. It is perfect, unblemished, pure red, and it warms him more to think that she picked it out for him.

“Tee!” Merrill says suddenly. “Tee?”

“That...isn't tea, Daisy.” Varric cocked his head to one side. “That's an apple.”

“I mean the letter, silly.” When it becomes clear to her that that explains nothing, she holds up her apple in one hand and, in the other, the stem. “If you recite the alphabet while you twist the stem, the letter you say when it comes off stands for the name of whoever you're going to marry someday. It's an old Dalish tradition—well, it's something children do, mostly.”

“It's something children do in Ferelden, as well,” Aveline says, and Hawke nods. “Though I don't remember ever getting to double-yoo.”

Isabela raises an eyebrow. “Remind me never to twist the stem off an apple ever again. One marriage was more than enough for me.”

“You've already bitten into yours, anyway, and you're supposed to do it before you eat the apple.”

Anders shrugs. “I'll bite. Throw me another apple, and we'll see what letter I get.”

Isabela tosses out another round of apples to everyone except for Fenris and Hawke, whose first apples are still whole. She sinks her teeth into her own without touching the stem.

The mage grasps the stem of his apple and turns it slowly, pronouncing a syllable with each twist. He slows around “aitch” and “eye,” but it isn't until “em” that the stem pops off.

Fenris listens to the recitation with growing unease. He knows something of letters and what they do, but nothing of what each one is called, or which sounds they are meant to represent, or what order they are supposed to be spoken in. They are as meaningless to him as the sound of wind through the leaves.

“Em,” Anders repeats. “Madeline? Matthew?”

“Merrill?” Sebastian suggests.

“No offense,” Merrill says coolly, “but I don't think we're right for each other.”

Anders grimaces. “You'll get no argument from me.”

“Ooh, I know!” Hawke pipes up, her grin a little too wide as she waggles her eyebrows. “How about Meredith?”

The mage launches his apple at Hawke and she ducks, laughing.

“Am I next?” Aveline holds up her stem, which she has already pulled off. “I got dee.”

Merrill leans forward. “Who do you know with a name that starts with dee?”

“You do realize Donnen Brennokovic is a fictional character, right?” Varric raises an eyebrow. “I know, he's brave and smart and handsome, but you can't actually marry him.”

Aveline rolls her eyes, but when the others turn their attention towards Varric, next in the circle, her expression goes thoughtful.

“All right, my turn.” Varric pulls the stem off his apple in two powerful twists.

“Bianca,” half the group chimes in unison.

He grins. “What can I say? It's decreed by fate. We're meant for each other.”

Sebastian's stem, too, parts from the apple with only two twists, though his are more delicate. He looks surprised at the stem in his hand and how easily it came off.

“Bee,” he says.

Varric narrows his eyes at Sebastian. “Stay away from Bianca, Choir Boy.” He shifts a little away. “She's spoken for.”

Sebastian gives an un-princely snort.

“I'm sure Bianca can decide for herself who she wants,” Isabela says with a laugh.

“Oh, she already has, Rivaini.” Varric winks. “Bianca's never had trouble making up her mind.”

Hawke hums and turns her gaze from Sebastian to Fenris. “It's your turn.”

Suddenly, all eyes are on him. They're all watching, waiting to hear him recite his letters.

Fenris scowls and drops his apple into the grass in front of him.

“This is superstitious Dalish nonsense.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “How is an apple to supposed to know anything about the future?”

“Spoil sport,” Anders mutters.

“Come on, elf,” Varric says.

Merrill throws in her best pout. “It's not going to hurt you to try.”

Fenris only glares. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hawke begin to twist at her own stem. One. Two.

“Suit yourself,” she says, still twisting. Three. Four.

Varric turns his gaze on her. “How about you, Hawke?”

Five. Six.

“Wouldn't you like to know?” She holds up the apple, absent its stem, and grins.

Isabela smirks. “A secret, is it?”

“If you wanted to know, you should've been paying attention.”

Hawke tosses a glance Fenris's way, and he glowers back, wishing desperately that he knew which letter comes sixth and which name it might represent. She shrugs and slips the stem into her pocket as she looks away.

He watches her bite into the apple and picks up the one that he dropped, the one that she picked out for him. It is still perfect, despite a bit of grass clinging to its skin on the side where it fell. After a few moments, he finds his hands idly twisting at the stem, his tongue counting silently behind his teeth.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

Eight.

Fenris glances up at a conversation that has turned to a new direction. But Hawke is looking at him again, looking at his hands.

She meets his gaze and smiles.


End file.
